Sam Beam is cruising on empty

elastic transparency like golden rods
carefully aligned in shoulders of comfort
trying to stall like taken mountains
too engrossed on epiphanies of contentment
let the ground heal your back
your sore tired restitution for eclipse
Sam Beam is a tired strait of laughing

old bootlegs sacrificed for oil
do not condemn the first candles
the original oldies for spatial malware
come home to the containment
revisit the clarity of experience
doors upon doors where Marx erred
before film school matinees entreated